


Scenes From a Life Made of Joy

by orphan_account



Series: Comfort Zone [4]
Category: Hollyoaks
Genre: M/M, Series Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-16
Updated: 2011-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:14:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly what it says on the tin</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scenes From a Life Made of Joy

SCENES FROM A LIFE MADE OF JOY

 

 

 

 “Fucking car won’t start.”

Craig came stomping in, bringing the cold and the smell of snow (tinged with exhaust fumes) with him.

John Paul hadn’t even attempted to tell him not to bother going in today. Craig did what he wanted when it came to the company, rightly thinking that it would probably fall apart without him there to give the managers confidence. He was a hit man of sorts – a troubleshooter - coming in to ailing companies and getting them back on their feet. He loved the challenge, the ruthlessness of it. He was his own man, not answerable to anyone and got paid obscene amounts of money for doing what he loved most – telling people what to do.

He’d worked for several disparate companies after leaving Uni, learning the ropes, working at the coal face, analysing and planning, storing facts and insights away for the future. He planned on having his own company in time, but was enjoying this period of his career too much to be giving that too much attention for now. 

“So what you gonna do?” John Paul was at the PC, putting the finishing touches to his latest piece for the magazine. He could practically feel Craig’s agitation even from the other side of the room, even without looking at him.

Craig didn’t answer. John Paul heard him at the window, heard him swearing under his breath.

“Not much chance of it clearing up for the day.”

“Well I’ll be on the phone for most of it then.” He pulled the blinds with a violent swish. “Whose fucking idea was it to live in the back of beyond again?”

Here we go. “Mine.”

“And who tried to dissuade you, said we’d be attacked by fucking *weather* all year round?”

“You.”

“Next time, listen to me.” He flounced out, slammed the door.

John Paul rolled his eyes and carried on typing.

 

**

 

 

 

They’d moved into this house 3 years before and had got it pretty much the way they wanted.

Craig was on the road a lot – all over the UK – and though he didn’t actually come out and say it, John Paul knew he really needed this base, needed his castle to be there for him as a reward for all the hard graft.

He probably didn’t need to work half as hard as he did, but John Paul knew that Craig believed in giving 110% to anything he undertook. Oh he certainly knew *that*.

He didn’t even try to suppress the smile as he remembered some of their more memorable lovemaking. Craig was a passionate lover, especially when he was aroused – by jealousy and possessiveness.

When they’d first moved in they’d started going to a gym in town. It hadn’t been bad, good equipment, reasonable fees, a pool, sauna - everything. Only trouble was John Paul kept being hit on every time he went there. Craig had ignored it at first, but the last time – as it turned out – that they’d been to the gym Craig hadn’t even waited to get him into the house, but taken him against the wall in the garage, biting and growling, telling John Paul that he belonged to him and him alone and if any man thought they could get anywhere near him...

John Paul had slept in the following day. 

He’d woken to flowers and a note saying: sorry, but you’re MINE. Sorry.

John Paul had laughed for ages – even the way he put it was just so Craig. Sorry, but really not.

A few hours later he’d opened the door to some delivery men asking: “Where do you want this lot then mate?” Gym equipment – an expensive and extensive home gym.

He hadn’t allowed Craig to get out of the car when he pulled into the garage later; greeted him naked, lubricated, riding him until the windows steamed up completely, the pounding music echoing the rhythm he’d set...

No words had ever been said about either the gym or the home gym, they just both made a point of using the latter every day.

 

**

 

 

John Paul was a freelance writer, freelance only in the sense that he was self-employed; he was never short of work, never short of money and had lately felt moved to turn to the music he’d always loved so much. He’d given up the dj-ing some time in his 2 nd year at Trinity, more interested now in the production side of things. He’d been picking up knowledge through his contacts in the Music Press and was keen to try his hand at making his own beats.

The nature of his work meant that most of his time was spent at home, though he did go to Manchester at least once a week to meet with one of his editors.

Craig hated John Paul not being home when he arrived in the evenings, so though John Paul went out most days he usually tried to be there when Craig arrived. Craig would hug him hard, kissing and kissing him as though he’d gone to another country for 4 weeks rather than into Manchester to talk to his editor. 

If he sometimes deliberately ensured that he caught a slightly late train well where was the harm?

 

**

 

The snow was coming down really hard, hysterical reports predicting a really heavy fall – lasting for days. The country was told to get ready for hell on Earth – again. 

He loved the snow; one of the reasons he’d wanted to move so far north, missing the heavy snow he’d experienced in his childhood.

The weather up here was pretty bad, but this week looked like it was going to be rather worse than usual. 

He loved the snow: made cuddling up with Craig at night or early in the morning that much sweeter. 

 

 

**

Craig had bought the car last year – a flashy black number that had tinted windows – legal now, but you had to pay through the nose for the privilege.

John Paul, unable to resist the sight of Craig, dark glasses, hair tousled, in total control of the powerful beast, had gone down on him as they cruised the country roads. The knowledge that they were as private as if they’d been in their own bedroom made him confident, made him *really* take his time. 

Craig had managed to keep the car cruising all the way, a hand in John Paul’s hair and a groan the only signs he gave of being affected. 

On the way back Craig had returned the favour. 

John Paul had had to pull over, both hands buried in Craig’s hair, head back, moaning. 

He’d wanted to strangle Craig when he’d crowed – he was driving again – that *he* was clearly better at giving head. 

“70 miles an hour on the motorway, mate! You were going 5 miles on a bloody country road!”

“Whatever, darlin’; you just keep telling yourself that.”

John Paul hadn’t said anything, let it go, but three days later after denying Craig any oral at all (thing is Craig didn’t know he was being denied – their sex life was so rich and varied that he didn’t actually miss the oral when he didn’t get it for a day or two) he put him on his back, licked his balls and deep throated him until he felt strands of hair leave his scalp via Craig’s fingers and furrows score his back from nape to buttocks via Craig’s fingers. Oh and yeah the screaming... 

Good thing they had no close neighbours... 

Craig had eventually – when he’d recovered – conceded that yeah John Paul was better at giving head. 

 

 

 

**

 

 

Craig hated the Yorkshire accent and kept making fun of it. He was good at accents or maybe just good at taking the piss.

“I was in the shop for 20 fucking minutes trying to understand what she was saying.”

“Well okay she does have quite a strong accent.”

“Whose idea was it to move up here again?”

“Mine.”

“And who did his best to talk you out of it?”

“You.”

 

**

 

He didn’t really know why but their phone number seemed to be on a tele-marketing hit list. He generally allowed them to do their stuff – unless he was snowed under - finding it both amusing and edifying to see how able they were to deviate from the script, remember that there was a real person behind the marketer. 

One of the most memorable was a call from a guy trying to sell him insurance. 

“Not got any kids, mate.”

 

 

“No? Your wife want to have a career first, yeah I know-“

“Not married.”

“Oh well won’t be long before the girlfriend demands that ring on her finger.”

“Well I can’t imagine him demanding a ring. Lot of things, but not a ring.”

“Oh you’re gay. You should have said.”

“Why? Do you have different policies for gay couples?”

“Well not exactly I was meaning on more of a personal level.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. You sound like a nice bloke, got a sexy voice. I’m in the city centre, only a car ride away...”

“And why would you think I’d be interested in knowing any of that?”

“I could send you my picture.”

“Oh you mean the one you’ll nab off one of those sites - the ones with the fit looking models?”

“No, I’d tek it of me at me desk, real time, so’s you’d know it were the genuine article.”

“Okay: question.”

“Fire away.”

“Are you dark-haired, dark-eyed with a sexy little mole on the corner of your upper lip, sexy London accent, abs to die for and a brain the size of the USA?”

“Well not exactly. But I’m blonde, I’m tanned I’ve got a six pack-“

“Well what I obviously failed to make clear to you was that if you don’t have all those things in a very specific combination then you’re wasting your time. Been nice chatting with you, but please don’t call again. I’m not interested in either your insurance policies or anything else you have to offer.”

He’d been flattered of course, but the thought of even looking at another man was just so ludicrous he spent most of the rest of the day chuckling to himself honestly surprised that he wasn’t actively giving off a scent that said: THIS ONE’S TAKEN! to all interested parties just so they wouldn’t waste their time. 

Nature did it far more efficiently he thought.

Craig had arrived home a little earlier than usual, given John Paul a casual peck in greeting then insisted on cooking dinner. 

They often took turns to cook, it never occurring to either of them that just because John Paul was based at home that domestic duties automatically fell to him: he worked too – just didn’t go away to do so and Craig never forgot that, often enough having to demand John Paul “get off that fucking thing and come kiss me!” after being home for hours without any kind of real acknowledgement from his lover. He’d come to hate the word ‘deadline’. 

They’d showered together as they often did, Craig getting a little frisky as he often did, telling John Paul to dry off and wait for him – in bed.

John Paul liked it when Craig took charge – it was something that was so fluid between them – taking charge - and they read each other so well that it was now a matter of instinct to sense when the other was in the mood for just lying back and taking.

John Paul was definitely in that mood – that blonde, tanned with a six pack phone call had made him want to reassert the fact that this man was everything, everything to him, whether Craig knew what was going on in his mind or not. He’d tell him about the call – later. 

Craig came in, a towel round his waist for some reason. He was still slender, but the gym work had defined his musculature until he was perfection itself, his frame more naturally given to the development of muscle than John Paul’s who had to work much harder to achieve the same effect. Staying fit and looking good was what they did for each other, a sort of I’ll always look good for you and I’ll always stay healthy for you, a thing understood and never discussed. They reveled in the vigour and uninhibited nature of their sex life and being fit and looking good was a pretty huge part of that. 

John Paul was lying on his front, head facing the door and raised an eyebrow when he saw that Craig wasn’t naked. “What’s this?” He nodded at the towel. 

Craig knelt in front of him, kissed him, hands stroking the smooth skin of his shoulders. “So, this guy, the one with the dark hair and dark eyes, the little mole on his upper lip oh and yeah that sexy London accent you reckon he’s the jealous type then?” 

John Paul stared. The accent, the slightly refined Yorkshire accent, easily falling into its clearly more common origins as he went on was very familiar. “You sod,” he accused, aiming a slap at him. 

Craig dodged, fell back, weak with laughter. “Oh you’re good – ‘thank you very much now kindly fuck off!’ I were reet proud of you, lad.”

“You absolute tosser!” He was laughing too: Craig had completely snowed him – he had had no idea it was his lover on the other end of the line. “God is that what you do at work all day? I am never going to believe you now when you whine about how hard you have to work.”

Craig kissed him again with a lot more tongue this time. “Missed you.” 

“Prove it.”

Looked like bigging Craig up to other guys was a pretty sure means of getting himself fucked into a blissed out heap. 

What a pity he couldn’t actually orchestrate that – several times a week for preference.

 

**

 

Craig hated the cold and when John Paul had talked about holidaying in Scandinavia a few years back hadn’t spoken to him for 3 hours until he’d said “Okay, we are never, ever going anywhere cold, even cool, even a little cool for our hols. Happy?”

Craig had rimmed him till he’d come, shouting his lover’s name.

Oh well no ffords in his future then.

 

 

**

 

They’d been together for 7 years when t hey’d discussed a Civil Partnership. Both agreed they didn’t want the fuss.

On their monthly visit to Hollyoaks Myra saw the rings and went ballistic. She held them hostage for three days, the longest reception John Paul had ever heard of, only releasing them when Craig kept fielding irate panicked phone calls from the company he was troubleshooting at the time.

In the bedroom that Myra kept for them – they were on their 3 rd  bed and Craig had decided that they might as well invest in a really good one this time – they’d snuggled up together, agreeing that the decision to just go ahead and do it – without muss or fuss - had definitely been the right thing to do.

 

**

He gave Craig two hours to make his phone calls, sort things out with the company; used the time to get make some progress on a track he’d been working on (without notable success) for two weeks.

He checked the time – 10 0’clock – perfect.

The snow was coming down in small white clouds of fluff, making the landscape akin to something out of a fairytale.

He’d get Craig back into bed by any means at his disposal. This decided he listened at the door to Craig’s study (they each had a study, experience teaching them that they just couldn’t work in the same room, Craig always somehow finding his way on to John Paul’s lap, either of his own volition or because John Paul put him there and well, business phone calls were probably best not conducted in this manner). When he heard nothing but the sound of the radio –news, some sort of business programme was his guess – he grinned to himself and went to the bathroom. They rarely used this one, having an ensuite, but he loved the bath in this one – this was the one they used when they wanted to bathe together. But he didn’t dawdle, planning how he’d surprise him, preferably in the middle of delivering a bollicking to one of the managers. Maybe he’d go down on him and then ride him. Craig really liked being ridden...

He dried off and went into the bedroom for the necessary...tools...of his ‘trade’ – lube, lots and lots of lube and that cologne Craig really liked.

Their bedroom was the room they’d spent most time and care getting just so and the room he loved the most.

They’d knocked into the back bedroom (they had a four bed house – one enormous master bedroom (two rooms in one) a large guest room with twin beds and a smaller room they’d converted into the gym) and had windows on three walls of the room – front, back and side. The light, all year round, but especially in summer was just incredible.

Their bed was handcrafted to their very precise and exacting specification and dominated the room. It stood in the very centre of the room – pride of place, centre of attention. There was a mirror above the bed, but it wasn’t obviously a mirror and not always visible either – they actually had to choose to bring it into play which added a certain amount of intent to their lovemaking when one or the other depressed the switch that brought it into play...

The windows were uncovered and the snow was falling everywhere his eyes rested – a warm blanket of comfort and cool beauty.

Craig was on the bed, hands behind his head, dark underarm hair visible, contrasting nicely with the gold of his skin, the snow white bedding. John Paul caught his breath. He loved seeing him like this – like a feast designed for him, to his exact taste, everything perfectly concocted to firstly create the appetite and then...satisfy it.

The white sheet was draped artfully across groin, the dark trail of hair drawing attention to the incredible muscles in his lower belly.

John Paul felt his cock lift the thick flannel of the towel at his groin.

“What kept you, dumbo?”

Yep, charm personified. Was it any wonder he loved this man so much?

He allowed Craig to undo the towel, bestow a sloppy kiss on his lower belly. “You left the radio on.” Craig’s hair was soft, tousled, just the way John Paul loved best.

“Yeah cos I knew what you’d do.” He allowed himself to be pushed back onto his back, grinned as John Paul sat astride him.

“Sorry to be so predictable.”

“Well.” His fingers were running up and down John Paul’s back. “You’ve a chance to redeem yourself now.”

“Is that so?”

 

**

 

John Paul used the snow as an excuse to show Craig – remind him, make it clear to him - just how much, how very much he was loved. 

When the snow cleared Craig took the leave he hadn’t bothered with for several years and booked them a holiday – in Norway. 


End file.
